


i'm so hot for him (he's so cold)

by lyssawolf



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4563267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyssawolf/pseuds/lyssawolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Almost Famous AU pretty much. Title is from She's So Cold by The Rolling Stones. Not finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm so hot for him (he's so cold)

"Harry! Harr- excuse me. Harry Styles!"

Harry turned to the voice, sweeping some dark glossy curls from his eyes. All he saw was his band's haphazard security, joking amidst foggy twists of cigarette smoke. He shook his head with a smirk. As if those guys would ever do any good for them. He turned back to helping the others unload their gear, carefully removing a heavy guitar case when he heard the call again.

"Um, excuse me sirs. Harry! Can I get- excuse me I said. Can I get a few words Harry?"

"Sounds like someone's desperate for a cover story," Harry's bandmate, a bushy haired wild-eyed rebel named Nick, grinned his direction with sparkling eyes. Harry laughed lightly in response before looking back again.

Now, softly arguing with his security, stood a small man, caramel hair feathering over his forehead and producing delicate stubble along his sharp jawbone. His thin hands grasped carefully at a tattered looking notebook and heavily chewed pencil, and an expensive looking camera hung from his shoulders and rested against his chest. At first the sight of the camera made Harry scowl-- he wasn't a fan of press, with their stinky mouths and eyes, their hooded smiles and dirty fingernails. But... this one was alone. And, well.. he didn't look _so_ dirty.

The man must've felt Harry's eyes. He glanced away from his argument, and Harry caught his breath. Ice-blue, nearly matching the carefully applied finish on Harry's most used, most loved, electric. Harry'd never seen that color on anything else.

"Hey," Nick called, making Harry turn away reluctantly. Nick jerked his head in the man's direction, his eyebrows furrowed, "You're not actually gonna talk to him, are you?"

Harry considered a moment, looked back again. Then shrugged, "Maybe I will."

He started to walk over, tucking his hands inside the pockets of his well-worn tight black jeans, when a hand on his shoulder stopped him. The band's drummer, Niall, was wearing a white smile that stretched to his ocean gaze.

"C'mon Haz," he clipped cheerfully, "There's no time for press. Show starts in an hour."

Harry wanted to protest, but when he glanced back, the man was gone again. Perhaps security had persuaded him to back off. Something inside Harry nudged unpleasantly, making him feel as if he'd done something wrong. But Niall was right. There was no time to mess around. He walked back to the truck and began to unload again, ignoring the way his stomach twisted with indecision.

\--

On-stage, Harry felt powerful. The mic felt natural pressed against his rough lips, and his fingers moved like magic over the strings of his ice-blue beauty. His voice resonated through the arena like the roar of a lion, and when he shook his mane, he couldn't help but believe he was the king of the jungle. Niall's drums pounded like waves, Nick's bass rumbled like thunder, and he was the lightning, shocking the audience into life.

At one point in the concert, he was strutting down the long runway, his boots clicking gloriously against the wood, speaking to his captivated audience. Most of what he said was utter shit, the usual, "We can see you in the back! But let's HEAR you!" and the like. And just as he was about to tell everyone to raise their hands, he happened to glance down and see two bright blue eyes peeking out over a very expensive camera.

"Hey," he said, sounding perturbed as he crossed the stage quickly to point down at the man, "What's this? Think you're quite cool, do you?"

The man's eyes widened as his camera lowered. His mouth was moving, but Harry couldn't hear him.

"I hope you understand this is not allowed," Harry admonished, and the man's shoulders visibly drooped, his face looking nervous. Harry couldn't stand to wait very long before he dropped his punchline with a grin, "You have to let me know you're taking pictures so I can pose a little. I'm not bloody picture-perfect 24/7."

The audience laughed, and the man joined them. Harry smiled, then kneeled down so blue-eyes could give a response, letting his microphone near someone else's pink lips. The man licked them nervously in understanding before saying, "Well, let's have it then. I want only the best pictures for my article."

For a minute, Harry just let the voice sink in. This was.. quite unusual to say the least. He always analyzed voices-- it was in his nature as a vocalist. He sort of drew conclusions about a person from the way their voice lilted or roughed on a down-pitch, or if they squeaked slightly when excited. This man's voice was bright, pale dawn, breaking over peaks of gold and hollows of warm shadow. Harry wanted to hear more. So much more. So, against the impatient voices in his ear urging him to get on with the damn show, he decided a bit of banter was in order.

"Article? Oh no. You can't write about me unless I get to read it first." Again, the mic was lowered.

The man tilted his head, a smirk growing on his-- damn-impossibly-rosy-pink-- lips. "I don't see how that could ever work. After this concert you'll pop off without any thought of me and my article, I'm sure. So I can write whatever I very well want."

The crowed ooo'ed appreciatively, and Harry couldn't help but grin madly. "Well then I suppose we'll just have to kidnap you. Then you can write your article, I can read it, and all's well."

"You're on, Styles." the man murmured into the microphone, "Now pose a little. I'm going to take your picture."

And just like that, Harry Styles, king of modern rock and roll, was completely enamored with a tiny scruff of a man whose hair was mussed beyond belief.

\--

 

After the show, Harry and the boys were all lounging backstage, cigarettes hanging loosely from their lips. Harry tilted back his bottle of cheap alcohol just as Nick let out an impossibly loud burp. Everyone cracked up, blowing billows of smoke into the air.

"Haz," Niall barked before drawing on his cigarette casually. Harry lazily met his eyes. "What was all that with that press goon?"

Harry shrugged, blowing a misshapen smoke ring toward the light fixture on the ceiling, "Just a little fun."

"He was that bloke from before the show, wasn't he?" Nick asked, toeing off his boots as he kicked his feet up on the empty chair facing him.

Harry nodded, then made an affirmative noise in case Nick's eyes weren't facing his direction. They were silent for a minute, watching the grey tendrils swirl above their heads.

Harry shifted a bit in his seat, then said, as casually as possible, "You think he'd actually come along with us? I mean, like, as a groupie or something."

Niall glanced at Harry, his brows only slightly furrowed, "S'pose it depends on how bad he wants that article."

"Hmm," Harry hummed, his thumb fiddling with the end of his cigarette. He could feel Niall and Nick eyeing him with suspicion.

"Please don't say you're really considering this, Harry?" Nick asked hesitantly, slightly degrading.

Harry glared at him, "So what if I am? He didn't seem all that bad."

"Oh lord, you've _got_ to be joking," Niall moaned, right as Nick spluttered, "He-he's press! Press!"

"Besides," Nick reasoned, "There's no way this kind of thing could be allowed."

"Who's gonna fucking stop me?" Harry muttered into his beer bottle, his eyes closed nonchalantly. In doing this, he could easily pay no attention to the daggers of hate being flung his way.

" _We_ could stop you," Niall said, his voice annoyed, "We're a band, not a one man dumbass train you twat."

"Yeah," Nick agreed impatiently, "That's two against one. We're not letting some bloody trash-writer tag along. Not when we're this close to hitting the big time. All this'll cause is trouble. I mean, you can't just pick someone up off the street without warning anybody."

"Aw c'mon guys," Harry said, pushing himself up into a sitting position with his elbows, "It's just for fun. Think about it. This guy probably _adores_ us. Did you not see his face when I started talking to him? He's gone for us. He'll go along with _anything_ we say. How bad could it be to have someone to mess around with? It'd be like having our own little assistant. Plus, he'd write some fantastic sopping love story about how _amazing_ we are. And all _that'll_ cause is good for us." He used his cigarette to emphasize his main points, stabbing it in the air at the two of them, "Also, I highly doubt anyone would miss him. He looked like a solo act, all lonely and such. I think he quite needs a group of friends." 

Nick rolled his eyes, "Whatever Styles," but Niall was looking at him with interest now, turned fully onto his side on the chaise lounge that he rested upon.

"I mean.. he did seem pretty desperate to talk to us. Plus, he was young and alone, which is a good sign when it comes to press," Niall tapped the end of his beer bottle against his lips thoughtfully.

"I, for one, didn't see any sign of a press pass on him," Harry supported, sitting up further.

Nick glanced between the both of them, then threw an arm over his face, "You two have both gone bloody bonkers."

"Harry might have a point-" Niall began, but Nick cut him off with a quick, "And how are you going to find him? He's probably long gone by now. Why the hell would he stick around after the concert if we've already blew him off?"

Harry was quiet for a minute, then stood, saying, "I guess we'll see how much of a fan he really is." He winked in Niall's direction.

Nick scoffed, "You're not _seriously_  going to see if he's out there, are you?"

But Harry ignored him as he strolled out the door, the neck of his beer bottle hanging between his index and middle finger.

Despite his stubborn streak, Harry respected his bandmates. They were both older than him by a few years, but that didn't always make them wiser. Harry might be only 18, but he felt like he'd experienced enough of the world to know a few things about it. Perhaps his idea was a little naive, but in the 70s- when no matter how fast you moved, everything else moved faster- sometimes you needed a little naivety to get by. After all, he was tired of being all business all the time. Where Nick was in this to become successful, Harry was in it for the fun, for the adventure. He was sure this witty man with icy eyes could only add to that. If he'd even come along, of course.

Out in the night, it was cool, with a soft breeze blowing the cigarette smoke quickly from Harry's lips and off to mix with the thin clouds above. The moon's cold light shone across the cracked asphalt of the stadium parking lot. A few of the band's security were gathered outside the door, their shirts painted with the band's name: White Eskimos. They hadn't made enough money to buy actual printed shirts yet.

Harry pulled blowing curls from his eyes as his security team turned to smile at him.

"Hey Harry, need something?" Paul, a stocky man with brown hair cropped close to his skull, asked patiently.

Harry swayed over casually, nodding, "Yeah, actually. Was wondering if you happened to see a man out here. Kinda short, blue eyes?"

When the men all shook their heads, Harry's shoulders drooped in defeat. Its not that he'd been expecting the guy to still be hanging around, but... well, it would've been nice to be right for once. Niall and Nick were always pushing and shoving to have their own way, even though _he_ was the band's frontman. It didn't seem all that fair in his eyes. Technically he started this band, and all he got in return was hard knocks.

Sighing, he turned away with a soft, "Thanks anyway," and began to walk along the side of the building, not really wanting to go back into the smoke filled room housing two drunk, and probably sleeping, dragons. He turned a corner, kicking at loose gravel littering the ground, his cigarette hanging loosely from his lips and trailing smoke behind him. He began to hum a song- one of their songs- under his breath, enjoying the way the breeze pushed his hair away from his neck in a gentle caress.

The longer he walked, the more his power-high from the concert fell away, and that feeling of being only a small child in a small world descended on him, shrinking his broad shoulders. He loved being on the road, travelling from one place to another, never caring about the destination as long as the music was right. But sometimes he felt so.. lonely. Nick and Niall were great, really. But they didn't hear the music the way he did. They didn't ride the road the way he did. They didn't feel what he felt.

He loved doing music because he could put what he was feeling into the lyrics he wrote, or into the guitar bits he strummed, and then it was out in the air for everyone to hear. But no one understood it, just him. Sure, they all loved it, soaked it all up and screamed its praises. That was the point, of course, to make the fans happy even if they're singing the wrong words. He shook his head, trying to clear it of all but that thought. Please the fans, that what was he was trying to do here. Like Nick said, if they wanted to make it to the top, they had to have help from the people that knew how to climb, and that was the fans.

One of which, he nearly tripped over while he was lost in thought.

"Oh, oops," he muttered apologetically, backing away from the figure sitting hunched on the ground. In the dark, away from the streetlights that only spotted the entrances of the arena, he couldn't make out the person's face. They rushed to stand, nervously brushing off their pants.

"No, you're good mate," the figure replied, and Harry bit his lip. Perhaps the face was dark, but the voice was clear as a bell. It was reporter-boy, Harry's very own Clark Kent, here in Superman form to save Harry's downer of a day.

He smiled and said, "Hey, aren't you-" while the man before him stuck out his hand for a shake and cut him off with "Louis Tomlinson, intern for Rolling Stone. You are... Harry Styles, innit? Bit dark over here."

Harry took the hand offered and firmly shook it, respecting the calloused feel of the skin, "That'd be me alright. Think you've been looking for me all day. Follow me, I'll take you where we can see each other. Don't want to be kidnapped, after all."

He began to walk, his heart lifting when laughter mixed with the footsteps tapping along behind him.

The man, or, Louis, hurried to catch up till they were walking side by side. Louis seemed careful to keep a distance between them, but Harry couldn't help bumping his shoulder 'on accident' every once in a while. One, simply because he couldn't walk straight for the life of him, but two, because he enjoyed human contact in any form. Niall often chastised him for being too handsy.

"So," Harry started, "Intern for the Rolling Stone, huh? Sounds fancy."

Louis shrugged, "It's alright. I mean, most of my time has been spent making tea and coffee for the higher ups, but I need the experience."

"I bet you're happy they sent you on this assignment then," Harry said.

"They didn't send me," Louis replied shyly.

Harry glanced at him. They were just stepping out of the building's shadow, and moonlight was washing over the other's face, turning his gaze to blue fire.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Louis looked at him and smiled, and Harry was surprised to see the soft red of a blush creeping over cheekbones sharp as knives. "I bought tickets to your concert because I've loved you guys' music for years. I thought I might as well practice my interviewing skills while I was here."

Harry reached over to tap Louis' chest, causing Louis to slightly flinch while Harry grinned, "That explains why you don't have a press pass."

Louis looked cheeky then, his white teeth reflecting the moonlight, "And why I had so much trouble with your security."

Harry laughed, "Well you should've just come to me first. I'd have been happy to help you out. I mean, I know struggle just like anyone else."

"O-kay," Louis smirked, "Because struggle is having your life handed to you on a silver platter."

Harry stopped walking, staring dumbfounded at Louis. There was banter, and then there was just hurtful words.

"I can't believe you think that about me," Harry said, "You don't even know me."

Louis stopped too, fully facing Harry. His eyes flicked back and forth, searching Harry's face, making him uncomfortable. Maybe this was a bad idea. But then Louis opened his delicate mouth and said, "Let me get to know you."

Harry thought that sounded like a fantastic idea. Sure, Louis just meant for his article. But Harry liked to think unrealistically. It made life more interesting.

Harry smirked and began to walk again, pulling a hairband from his wrist and reaching back to tie his hair up in a messy bun as he thought of his next question. 

"Why the hell were you still sitting out here? The concert's been over for at least thirty minutes," he waited for the answer nervously and anxiously- he wasn't sure if he really wanted to hear it.

Louis laughed though, and shrugged, "I guess I kinda felt like I'd failed. I mean, I didn't get an interview- just pictures- and I didn't really feel like going home. Plus, the stars looked really nice."

"So you were just planning on sitting out in the dark, staring out your feelings at the stars?" Harry joked. They were now just a few feet from the entrance to the backstage area, but Harry stopped walking, wanting to have a conversation just out of reach of the guards looking on in interest.

Louis was grinning when he replied, "Yeah, something like that."

"Rude. Maybe the stars didn't want your feelings."

"Well I guess they didn't get them, since you came and interrupted my telepathic signal."

"Oh, so now you're telepathic? What do you need an interview for then? Just read my mind."

"That's not how it works, Haz." 

Harry blinked. A nickname? Nice. He was making progress already. He ignored the way butterflies fluttered nervously in his stomach. 

"Well, let's go inside then. You'll want to interview the whole team, I assume?" 

Louis shrugged, "Yeah, I guess." He almost looked a little put out.

Harry gestured for the man to follow him as he turned and walked to the door, making a small noise of greeting in the direction of the guards, ignoring their curious looks. Lousy guards they were, since they let this strange blue-eyed boy right in without even questioning him or Harry. Of course, that just meant Harry had a better chance of completing his plan. 


End file.
